Chapter 1

The taxi zipped through the airport traffic. Gwen
let out along sigh as the Louisiana heat throbbed
around her. She shifted as the thin material of her
ivory lawn blouse dampened against her back. The
relief was brief. Squinting out of the window, she
decided the July sun hadn’t changed in the two
years she had been away. The cab veered away from
downtown New Orleans and cruised south. Gwen
reflected that very little else here had changed in the
past two years but herself. Spanish moss still draped
the roadside trees, giving even the sun-drenched af-
ternoon a dreamlike effect. The warm, thick scent
of flowers still wafted through the air. The atmo-
sphere was touched with an easygoing indolence
she nearly had forgotten during the two years she’d
spent in Manhattan. Yes, she mused, craning her
neck to catch a glimpse of a sheltered bayou, I’m
the one who’s changed. I’ve grown up.

When she had left Louisiana, she’d been twenty-
one and a starry-eyed innocent. Now, at twenty-
three, she felt mature and experienced. As an
assistant to the fashion editor of Style magazine,
Gwen had learned how to cope with deadlines,
soothe ruffled models, and squeeze in a personal
life around her professional one. More, she had
learned how to cope alone, without the comfort of
familiar people and places. The gnawing ache of
homesickness she had experienced during her first
months in New York was forgotten, the torture of
insecurity and outright fear of being alone were
banished from her memory. Gwen Lacrosse had
not merely survived the transplant from magnolias
to concrete, she felt she had triumphed. This is one
small-town Southern girl who can take care of her-
self, she reflected with a flash of defiance. Gwen
had come home not merely for a visit, a summer
sabbatical. She had come on a mission. She folded
her arms across her chest in an unconscious ges-
ture of determination.

In the rearview mirror, the taxi driver caught a
glimpse of a long, oval face surrounded by a shoul-
der-length mass of caramel curls. The bone struc-
ture of his passenger’s face was elegant, but the
rather sharp features were set in grim lines. Her
huge brown eyes were focused on some middle
distance, and her full, wide mouth was unsmiling.
In spite of her severe expression, the cabbie de-
cided, the face was a winner. Unaware of the scru-
tiny, Gwen continued to frown, absorbed by her
thoughts. The landscape blurred, then disappeared
from her vision.

How, she wondered, could a forty-seven-year-old
woman be so utterly naive? What a fool she must be
making of herself. Mama’s always been dreamy and
impractical, but this! It’s all his fault, she thought
resentfully. Her eyes narrowed as she felt a fresh
surge of temper, and color rose to warm the ivory
tone of her skin. Luke Powers—Gwen gritted her
teeth on the name—successful novelist and screen-
writer, sought-after bachelor and globe-trotter. And
rat, Gwen added, unconsciously twisting her leather
clutch bag in a movement suspiciously akin to that
of wringing a neck. A thirty-five-year-old rat. Well,
Mr. Powers, Gwen’s thoughts continued, your lit-
tle romance with my mother is through. I’ve come
all these miles to send you packing. And by hook
or crook, fair means or foul, that’s what I’m going
to do.

Gwen sat back, blew the fringe of curls from
her eyes and contemplated the pleasure of ousting
Luke Powers from her mother’s life. Researching
a new book, she sniffed. He’ll have to research his
book without researching my mother. She frowned,
remembering the correspondence from her mother
over the past three months. Luke Powers had been
mentioned on almost every page of the violet-
scented paper; helping her mother garden, taking
her to the theater, hammering nails, making him-
self generally indispensable.

At first Gwen had paid little attention to the
constant references to Luke. She was accustomed
to her mother’s enthusiasm for people, her flow-
ery, sentimental outlook. And, to be honest, Gwen
reflected with a sigh, I’ve been preoccupied with
my own life, my own problems. Her thoughts flit-
ted back to Michael Palmer—practical, brilliant,
selfish, dependable Michael. A small cloud of de-
pression threatened to descend on her as she re-
membered how miserably she had failed in their
relationship. He deserved more than I could give
him, she reflected sadly. Her eyes became troubled
as she thought of her inability to share herself as
Michael had wanted. Body and mind, she had held
back both, unwilling or unable to make the commit-
ment. Quickly shaking off the encroaching mood,
Gwen reminded herself that while she had failed
with Michael, she was succeeding in her career.

In the eyes of most people, the fashion world was
glamorous, elegant, full of beautiful people mov-
ing gaily from one party to the next. Gwen almost
laughed out loud at the absurdity of the illusion.
What it really was, as she had since learned, was
crazy, frantic, grueling work filled with tempera-
mental artists, high-strung models and impossible
deadlines. And I’m good at handling all of them,
she mused, automatically straightening her shoul-
ders. Gwen Lacrosse was not afraid of hard work
any more than she was afraid of a challenge.

Her thoughts made a quick U-turn back to Luke
Powers. There was too much affection in her moth-
er’s words when she wrote of him, and his name
cropped up too often for comfort. Over the past
three months, Gwen’s concern had deepened to
worry, until she felt she had to do something about
the situation and had arranged for a leave of ab-
sence. It was, she had decided, up to her to protect
her mother from a womanizer like Luke Powers.

She was not intimidated by his reputation with
words or his reputation with women. He might be
said to be an expert with both, she mused, but I
know how to take care of myself and my mother.
Mama’s trouble is that she’s too trusting. She sees
only what she wants to see. She doesn’t like to see
faults. Gwen’s mouth softened into a smile, and
her face was suddenly, unexpectedly breathtaking.
I’ll take care of her, she thought confidently, I al-
ways have.

The lane leading to Gwen’s childhood home
was lined with fragile magnolia trees. As the taxi
turned in and drove through patches of fragrant
shade, Gwen felt the first stirrings of genuine plea-
sure. The scent of wisteria reached her before her
first glimpse of the house. It had three graceful
stories and was made of white-washed brick with
high French windows and iron balconies like lace-
work. A veranda flowed across the entire front of
the house, where the wisteria was free to climb on
trellises at each end. It was not as old or as elabo-
rate as many other antebellum houses in Louisiana,
but it had the charm and grace so typical of that
period. Gwen felt that the house suited her mother
to perfection. They were both fragile, impractical
and appealing.

She glanced up at the third story as the taxi
neared the end of the drive. The top floor contained
four small suites that had been remodeled for “visi-
tors,” as her mother called them, or as Gwen more
accurately termed them, boarders. The visitors,
with their monetary contributions, made it possi-
ble to keep the house in the family and in repair.
Gwen had grown up with these visitors, accepting
them as one accepts a small itch. Now, however,
she scowled up at the third-floor windows. One of
the suites housed Luke Powers. Not for long, she
vowed, as she slipped out of the cab with her chin
thrust forward.

As she paid her fare, Gwen glanced absently to-
ward the sound of a low, monotonous thudding. In
the side yard, just past a flourishing camellia, a man
was in the process of chopping down a long-dead
oak. He was stripped to the waist, and his jeans
were snug over narrow hips and worn low enough
to show a hint of tan line. His back and arms were
bronzed and muscled and gleaming with sweat. His
hair was a rich brown, touched with lighter streaks
that showed a preference for sun. It curled damply
at his neck and over his brow.

There was something confident and efficient in
his stance. His legs were planted firmly, his swing
effortless. Though she could not see his face, she
knew he was enjoying his task: the heat, the sweat,
the challenge. She stood in the drive as the cab
drove off and admired his raw, basic masculin-
ity, the arrogant efficiency of his movements. The
ax swung into the heart of the tree with a violent
grace. It occurred to her suddenly that for months
she had not seen a man do anything more physi-
cal than jog in Central Park. Her lips curved in ap-
proval and admiration as she watched the rise and
fall of the ax, the tensing and flow of muscle. The
ax, tree and man were a perfect whole, elemental
and beautiful. Gwen had forgotten how beautiful
simplicity could be.

The tree shuddered and moaned, then hesitated
briefly before it swayed and toppled to the ground.
There was a quick whoosh and thump. Gwen felt a
ridiculous urge to applaud.

“You didn’t say timber,” she called out.

He had lifted a forearm to wipe the sweat
from his brow, and at her call, he turned. The sun
streamed behind his back. Squinting against it,
Gwen could not see his face clearly. There was an
aura of light around him, etching the tall, lean body
and thickly curling hair. He looks like a god, she
thought, like some primitive god of virility. As she
watched, he leaned the ax against the stump of the
tree and walked toward her. He moved like a man
more used to walking on sand or grass than on con-
crete. Ridiculously, Gwen felt as though she were
being stalked. She attributed the strange thrill she
felt to the fact that she could not yet make out his
features. He was a faceless man, therefore some-
how the embodiment of man, exciting and strong.
In defense against the glare of the sun, she shaded
her eyes with her hand.

“You did that very well.” Gwen smiled, attracted
by his uncomplicated masculinity. She had not re-
alized how bored she had become with three-piece
suits and smooth hands. “I hope you don’t mind an
audience.”

“No. Not everyone appreciates a well-cut tree.”
His voice was not indolent with vowels. There was
nothing of Louisiana in his tone. As his face at last
came into focus, Gwen was struck with its power.
It was narrow and chiseled, long-boned and with
the faintest of clefts in the chin. He had not shaved,
but the shadow of beard intensified the masculin-
ity of the face. His eyes were a clear blue-gray.
They were calm, almost startlingly intelligent under
rough brows. It was a calm that suggested power,
a calm that captivated the onlooker. Immediately,
Gwen knew he was a man who understood him-
self. Though intrigued, she felt discomfort under
the directness of his gaze. She was almost sure he
could see beyond her words and into her thoughts.

“I’d say you have definite talent,” she told him.
There was an aloofness about him, she decided, but
it was not the cold aloofness of disinterest. He has
warmth, she thought, but he’s careful about who
receives it. “I’m sure I’ve never seen a tree toppled
with such finesse.” She gave him a generous smile.
“It’s a hot day for ax swinging.”

“You’ve got too many clothes on,” he returned
simply. His eyes swept down her blouse and skirt
and trim, stockinged legs, then up again to her face.
It was neither an insolent assessment nor an admir-
ing one; it was simply a statement. Gwen kept her
eyes level with his and prayed she would not do
anything as foolish as blushing.

“More suitable for plane travelling than tree
chopping I suppose,” she replied. The annoyance
in her voice brought a smile to the corners of his
mouth. Gwen reached for her bags, but her hand met
his on the handle. She jerked away and stepped back
as a new source of heat shot through her. It seemed
to dart up her fingers, then explode. Stunned by her
own reaction, she stared into his calm eyes. Con-
fusion flitted across her face and creased her brow
before she smoothed it away. Silly, she told herself
as she struggled to steady her pulse. Absolutely
silly. He watched the shock, confusion and annoy-
ance move across her face. Like a mirror, her eyes
reflected each emotion.

“Thank you,” Gwen said, regaining her poise.
“I don’t want to take you away from your work.”

“No hurry.” He hoisted her heavy bags easily. As
he moved up the flagstone walk, she fell into step
beside him. Even in heels, she barely reached his
shoulder. Gwen glanced up to see the sun play on
the blond highlights in his hair.

“Have you been here long?” she asked as they
mounted the steps to the veranda.

“Few months.” He set down her bags and placed
his hand on the knob. Pausing, he studied her face
with exacting care. Gwen felt her lips curve for
no reason at all. “You’re much lovelier than your
picture, Gwenivere,” he said unexpectedly. “Much
warmer, much more vulnerable.” With a quick
twist, he opened the door, then again picked up
her bags.

Breaking out of her trance, Gwen followed him
inside, reaching for his arm. “How do you know
my name?” she demanded. His words left her puz-
zled and defenseless. He saw too much too quickly.

“Your mother talks of you constantly,” he ex-
plained as he set her bags down in the cool, white-
walled hallway. “She’s very proud of you.” When
he lifted her chin with his fingers, Gwen was too
surprised to protest. “Your beauty is very differ-
ent from hers. Hers is softer, less demanding, more
comfortable. I doubt very much that you inspire
comfort in a man.” His eyes were on her face again,
and fascinated, Gwen stood still. She could nearly
feel the heat flowing from his body into hers. “She
worries about you being alone in New York.”

“One can’t be alone in New York, it’s a contra-
diction in terms.” A frown shadowed her eyes and
touched her mouth with a pout. “She’s never told
me she worried.”

“Of course not, then you’d worry about her wor-
rying.” He grinned.

Resolutely Gwen ignored the tingle of pleasure
his touch gave her. “You seem to know my mother
quite well.” Her frown deepened and spread. The
grin reminded her of someone. It was charming
and almost irresistible. Recognition struck like a
thunderbolt. “You’re Luke Powers,” she accused.

“Yes.” His brows lifted at the tone of her voice,
and his head tilted slightly, as if to gain a new per-
spective. “Didn’t you like my last book?”

“It’s your current one I object to,” Gwen snapped.
She jerked her chin from his hold.

“Oh?” There was both amusement and curios-
ity in the word.

“To the fact that you’re writing it here, in this
house,” Gwen elaborated.

“Have you a moral objection to my book, Gweni-
vere?”

“I doubt you know anything about morals,”
Gwen tossed back as her eyes grew stormy. “And
don’t call me that, no one but my mother calls me
that.”

“Pity, such a romantic name,” he said casually.
“Or do you object to romance, as well?”

“When it’s between my mother and a Hollywood
Casanova a dozen years younger than she, I have a
different name for it.” Gwen’s face flushed with the
passion of her words. She stood rigid. The humor
faded from Luke’s face. Slowly, he tucked his hands
in his pockets.

“I see. Would you care to tell me what you’d
call it?”

“I won’t glorify your conduct with a title,” Gwen
retorted. “It should be sufficient that you understand
I won’t tolerate it any longer.” She turned, intend-
ing to walk away from him.

“Won’t you?” There was something dangerously
cold in his tone. “And your mother has no voice in
the matter?”

“My mother,” Gwen countered furiously, “is
too gentle, too trusting and too naive.” Whirling,
she faced him again. “I won’t let you make a fool
of her.”

“My dear Gwenivere,” he said smoothly. “You
do so well making one of yourself.”

Before Gwen could retort, there was the sharp
click of heels on wood. Struggling to steady her
breathing, Gwen moved down the hall to greet her
mother.

“Mama.” She embraced a soft bundle of curves
smelling of lilac.

“Gwenivere!” Her mother’s voice was low and
as sweet as the scent she habitually wore. “Why,
darling, what are you doing here?”

“Mama,” Gwen repeated and pulled away far
enough to study the rosy loveliness of her moth-
er’s face. Her mother’s skin was creamy and al-
most perfectly smooth, her eyes round and china
blue, her nose tilted, her mouth pink and soft. There
were two tiny dimples in her cheeks. Looking at
her sweet prettiness, Gwen felt their roles should
have been reversed. “Didn’t you get my letter?”
She tucked a stray wisp of pale blond hair behind
her mother’s ear.

“Of course, you said you’d be here Friday.”

Gwen smiled and kissed a dimpled cheek. “This
is Friday, Mama.”

“Well, yes, it’s this Friday, but I assumed you
meant next Friday, and... Oh, dear, what does it
matter?” Anabelle brushed away confusion with
the back of her hand. “Let me look at you,” she re-
quested and, stepping back, subjected Gwen to a
critical study. She saw a tall, striking beauty who
brought misty memories of her young husband.
Widowed for more than two decades, Anabelle
rarely thought of her late husband unless reminded
by her daughter. “So thin,” she clucked, and sighed.
“Don’t you eat up there?”

“Now and again.” Pausing, Gwen made her own
survey of her mother’s soft, round curves. How
could this woman be approaching fifty? she won-
dered with a surge of pride and awe. “You look
wonderful,” Gwen murmured, “but then, you al-
ways look wonderful.”

Anabelle laughed her young, gay laugh. “It’s the
climate,” she claimed as she patted Gwen’s cheek.
“None of that dreadful smog or awful snow you
have up there.” New York, Gwen noted, would al-
ways be “up there.” “Oh, Luke!” Anabelle caught
sight of him as he stood watching the reunion. A
smile lit up her face. “Have you met my Gweni-
vere?”

Luke shifted his gaze until his eyes met Gwen’s.
His brow tilted slightly in acknowledgement. “Yes.”
Gwen thought his smile was as much a challenge
as a glove slapped across her cheek. “Gwen and I
are practically old friends.”

“That’s right.” Gwen let her smile answer his.
“Already we know each other quite well.”

“Marvelous.” Anabelle beamed. “I do want you
two to get along.” She gave Gwen’s hand a happy
squeeze. “Would you like to freshen up, darling, or
would you like a cup of coffee first?”

Gwen struggled to keep her voice from trembling
with rage as Luke continued to smile at her. “Cof-
fee sounds perfect,” she answered.

“I’ll take your bags up,” Luke offered as he lifted
them again.

“Thank you, dear.” Anabelle spoke before Gwen
could refuse. “Try to avoid Miss Wilkins until you
have a shirt on. The sight of all those muscles will
certainly give her the vapors. Miss Wilkins is one
of my visitors,” Anabelle explained as she led Gwen
down the hall. “A sweet, timid little soul who paints
in watercolors.”

“Hmm,” Gwen answered noncommittally as she
glanced back over her shoulder. Luke stood watch-
ing them with sunlight tumbling over his hair and
bronzed skin. “Hmm,” Gwen said again, and turned
away.

The kitchen was exactly as Gwen remembered:
big, sunny and spotlessly clean. Tillie, the tall,
waspishly thin cook stood by the stove. “Hello, Miss
Gwen,” she said without turning around. “Coffee’s
on.”

“Hello, Tillie.” Gwen walked over to the stove
and sniffed at the fragrant steam. “Smells good.”

“Cajun jambalaya.”

“My favorite,” Gwen murmured, glancing up at
the appealingly ugly face. “I thought I wasn’t ex-
pected until next Friday.”

“You weren’t,” Tillie agreed, with a sniff. Lower-
ing her thick brows, she continued to stir the roux.

Gwen smiled and leaned over to peck Tillie’s
tough cheek. “How are things, Tillie?”

“Comme ci, comme ça,” she muttered, but plea-
sure touched her cheeks with color. Turning, she
gave Gwen a quick study. “Skinny” was her quick,
uncomplimentary conclusion.

“So I’m told.” Gwen shrugged. Tillie never flat-
tered anyone. “You have a month to fatten me up.”
“Isn’t that marvellous, Tillie?” Anabelle care-
fully put a blue delft sugar and creamer set on the
kitchen table. “Gwen is staying for an entire month.
Perhaps we should have a party! We have three
visitors at the moment. Luke, of course, and Miss
Wilkins and Mr. Stapleton. He’s an artist, too, but
he works in oils. Quite a talented young man.”

Gwen seized the small opening. “Luke Powers is
considered a gifted young man, too.” She sat across
from her mother as Anabelle poured the coffee.

“Luke is frightfully talented,” Anabelle agreed
with a proud sigh. “Surely you’ve read some of his
books, seen some of his movies? Overwhelming.
His characters are so real, so vital. His romantic
scenes have a beauty and intensity that just leave
me weak.”

“He had a naked woman in one of his movies,”
Tillie stated in an indignant mutter. “Stark naked.”

Anabelle laughed. Her eyes smiled at Gwen’s
over the rim of her cup. “Tillie feels Luke is single-
handedly responsible for the moral decline in the
theater,” Anabelle continued.

“Not a stitch on,” Tillie added, setting her chin.

Though Gwen was certain Luke Powers had no
morals whatsoever, she made no reference to them.
Her voice remained casual as instead she com-
mented, “He certainly has accomplished quite a bit
for a man of his age. A string of best-sellers, a clutch
of popular movies...and he’s only thirty-five.”

“I suppose that shows how unimportant age re-
ally is,” Anabelle said serenely. Gwen barely sup-
pressed a wince. “And success hasn’t spoiled him
one little bit,” she went on. “He’s the kindest, sweet-
est man I’ve ever known. He’s so generous with
his time, with himself.” Her eyes shone with emo-
tion. “I can’t tell you how good he’s been for me. I
feel like a new woman.” Gwen choked on her cof-
fee. Anabelle clucked in sympathy as Tillie gave
Gwen a sturdy thump on the back. “Are you all
right, honey?”

“Yes, yes, I’m fine.” Gwen took three deep
breaths to steady her voice. Looking into her moth-
er’s guileless blue eyes, she opted for a temporary
retreat. “I think I’ll go upstairs and unpack.”

“I’ll help you,” Anabelle volunteered, and started
to rise.

“No, no, don’t bother.” Gwen placed a gentle
hand on her shoulder. “It won’t take long. I’ll shower
and change and be down in an hour.” In an hour,
Gwen hoped to have her thoughts more in order. She
looked down at her mother’s smooth, lovely face
and felt a hundred years old. “I love you, Mama,”
she sighed, and kissed Anabelle’s brow before she
left her.

As Gwen moved down the hall, she realigned her
strategy. Obviously, there was little she could say to
her mother that would discourage her relationship
with Luke Powers. It was going to be necessary, she
decided, to go straight to the source. While climb-
ing the stairs, she searched her imagination for an
appropriate name for him. She could find nothing
vile enough.